told him all--that they had no friends or relations; that she had fled
with the old man to save him from misery; that she was flying now to
save him from himself; and that she sought a home where he would not be
tempted again.
For some time the schoolmaster sat deep in thought; then he said that
Nell and her grandfather should go with him to the village whither he
was bound; and that he would try to find them some work by which they
could make a living. "We shall be sure to get on," said the
schoolmaster; "the cause is too good a one to fail."
They soon found that a stage-wagon would stop at the inn the next night
to change horses. When the wagon came Nell was placed inside, and in
due time it rolled away, the two men walking on beside the driver, and
the landlady and all the good folks of the inn shouting out their good
wishes and farewells.
What a soothing, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside that slowly
moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' bells, the
smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad
wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good-nights of passing
travellers, all falling lightly upon the ear!
Now and again Nell would walk for a mile or two while her grandfather
rode inside, and sometimes even the schoolmaster would take her place
and lie down to rest. So they went on very happily until they came to a
large town, where the wagon stopped, and they spent the night.
When they had passed through this town they came into the open country,
and after a long ride began to draw near the schoolmaster's new home.
"See--here's the church!" cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low
voice; "and that old building close beside it is the school-house, I'm
sure. Five-and-thirty pounds a year in this lovely place!"
They admired everything--the old gray porch, the fine old windows, the
gravestones in the green churchyard, the old tower, the very
weather-cock, the brown thatched roofs of cottage barns peeping from
among the trees, the stream that ran by the distant water-mill, the blue
mountains far away.
"I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said the schoolmaster at
length. "I have a letter to present, you know. Where shall I take you?
To the little inn yonder?"
"Let us wait here," said Nell. "The gate is open. We will sit in the
church porch till you come back."
"A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it,
and placing his bag on the stone seat. "Be sure that I will come back
with good news, and will not be long gone."
So the happy schoolmaster put on a pair of new gloves which he had
carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried off,
full of pleasant excitement.
*Chapter XII.*
*PEACE AFTER STORM.*
After a long time the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the
churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his hand, as he came
along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure.
"You see those two old houses?" he said at last.
"Yes, surely," replied Nell. "I have been looking at them nearly all
the time you have been away."
"And you would have looked at them still more if you could have guessed
what I have to tell you," said her friend. "One of those houses is
mine."
Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the
schoolmaster took her hand, and his honest face shining with pleasure,
led her to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low, arched door. After trying several of the
keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which
turned back creaking, and they stepped within.
The room which they entered was large and lofty, with a finely decorated
roof. "It is a very beautiful place!" said the child in a low voice.
"A peaceful place to live in; don't you think so?" said her friend.
"Oh yes!" said the child, clasping her hands earnestly; "a quiet, happy
place."
"A place to live and gather health of mind and body in," said the
schoolmaster; "and this old house is yours."
"Ours!" cried the child.
"Ay," said the schoolmaster gaily, "for many a merry year to come, I
hope. I shall be a close neighbour--only next door; but this house is
yours."
Having now told his great news, the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing
Nell to his side, told her how he had learned that that house had been
occupied for a very long time by an old person, who kept the keys of the
church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to
strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been
found to fill the office; how, learning all this, he had been bold
enough to mention his friends to the clergyman. In a word, the result
was that Nell and her grandfather were to go before the last-named
gentleman next day, and if they pleased him they were to be given the
charge of the church.
"There's a small allowance of money," said the schoolmaster. "It is not
much, but still enough to live upon. By clubbing our funds together we
shall do well; no fear of that."
"Heaven bless you!" sobbed the child.
"Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; "and all of us, as it
will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this peaceful
life. But we must look at my house now. Come!"
They went to the other door, tried the rusty keys as before, and at
length found the right one. Like the first house, it held such pieces
of furniture as were needful, and had its stack of firewood.
To make these houses as tidy and comfortable as they could was now their
pleasant care. In a short time each had its cheerful fire glowing and
crackling on the hearth. Nell, busily plying her needle, mended the torn
window-hangings, drew together the rents which time had worn in the
scraps of carpet, and made them whole and decent.
The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed
the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants, and gave to the
outer walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side
and sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there
on little, useful services, and was happy.
Neighbours, too, as they came from work, offered their help or sent
their children with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed
most. It was a busy day, and night came on and found them wondering
that there was yet so much to do, and that it should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together in the house which may henceforth be
called the child's; and when they had finished their meal, drew round
the fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were too quiet and glad
for loud talking--talked over their future plans. Before they separated
the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud, and then they parted for the
night.
Next day they all worked gaily in arranging their houses until noon, and
then went to visit the clergyman.
He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell,
asking her name and age, her birthplace, why she left her home, and so
forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story. They had no other
friends or home to leave, he said, and had come to share his life. He
loved the child as though she were his own.
"Well, well," said the clergyman, "let it be as you wish. She is very
young."
"Old in troubles and trials, sir," replied the schoolmaster.
"God help her. Let her rest and forget them," said the old gentleman,
laying his hand upon her head, and smiling at her. "Your request is
granted, friend."
After more kind words they went to the child's house, where they were
talking over their happy fortune when another friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman who had lived in the parsonage house
ever since the death of the clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen
years before. He had been his college friend and always his close
companion.
The little old gentleman was the friend of every one in the place. None
of the simple villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew
it, to store it in their memory, and he was known simply as the
Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and
the Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the Bachelor it was, it
may be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which
the wanderers had found in their new home.
The Bachelor, then, lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild
face for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like one who
was no stranger to it.
"You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster?" he said, greeting Nell's
kind friend.
"I am, sir."
"I am glad to see you. I should have come to greet you yesterday, but I
rode across the country to carry a message from a sick mother to her
daughter in service some miles off, and have but just now returned. This
is our young church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for
her sake or for this old man's."
"She has been ill, sir, very lately," said the schoolmaster.
"Yes, yes; I know she has," he said. "There have been suffering and
heartache here."
"Indeed there have, sir."
The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at
the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his and held.
"You will be happier here," he said, "We will try, at least, to make you
so. You have made great changes here already. Are they the work of your
hands?"
"Yes, sir," said Nell.
"We will make some others--not better in themselves, but with better
means, perhaps," said the Bachelor. "Let us see now, let us see."
Nell went with him into the other little rooms, and over both the
houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he said
he would supply, and then went away. After some five or ten minutes he
came back laden with old shelves, rugs, and blankets, and followed by a
boy bearing another load. These being cast on the floor in a heap, Nell
and her new friend spent a happy time in sorting and arranging them.
When nothing more was left to be done, the Bachelor told the boy to run
off and bring all his schoolmates before their new master.
"As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see," he said,
turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; "but I don't let 'em
know I think so. That wouldn't do at all."
The boy soon returned at the head of a long row of others, great and
small, who stood shyly before the little group of which the Bachelor was
the centre.
"This first boy, schoolmaster," said the little gentleman, "is John
Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper, but too
thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good
sir, would break his neck with pleasure; and between ourselves, when you
come to see him at hare-and-hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the
finger-post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll
never forget it. It's beautiful!"
John Owen having been thus rebuked, the Bachelor singled out another
boy.
"Now, look at that lad, sir," said the Bachelor. "You see that fellow?
Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with a
good memory; and moreover, with a good voice and ear for psalm-singing,
at which he is the best among us. Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad
end; he'll never die in his bed; he's always falling asleep in sermon
time--and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did the same at
his age, and feel quite certain that I couldn't help it."
This hopeful pupil having been thus described, the Bachelor turned to
another.
"But if," said he, "we come to a boy that should be a warning to all his
fellows, here's the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the
lad, sir--this one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a
swimmer, sir--this fellow--a diver.
"This is a boy, sir," he went on, "who had a fancy for plunging into
eighteen feet of water with his clothes on, and bringing up a blind
man's dog that was being drowned by the weight of its chain and collar,
while its master stood wringing his hands upon the bank. I sent the boy
two guineas, sir," added the Bachelor in a whisper, "directly I heard of
it; but never mention it, for he hasn't the least idea that it came from
me."
The Bachelor now turned to another boy, and from him to another, and so
on through the whole line. Feeling quite sure in the end that he had
made them miserable by his severity, he sent them away with a small
present and a severe warning to walk quietly home without any leaping,
scufflings, or turnings out of the way.
After a few moments the schoolmaster parted from him with a light heart
and joyous spirits, and thought himself one of the happiest men on
earth. The windows of the two old houses were ruddy again that night
with the warm light of the cheerful fires that burnt within; and the
Bachelor and his old friend, the clergyman, pausing to look upon them as
they returned from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the
beautiful child who had at last found a haven of rest in the village
they both loved so well.
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